Hora Somni
by Old Beginning New Ending
Summary: It was truly a curse that plagued the ancient grounds of Berk. Every year for thirteen nights, the children would cluster, commiserate, cower, and cry like their minds had been reduced to broken little fragments, praying for the torment to end. But Hiccup knew that sort of thinking would only get them killed (faster). AU
1. First Night

I haven't written this genre in quite a while. So please, bear with me.

The term "hooded figures" was originally from _Welcome_ _to_ _Night_ _Vale_. I just added my own…_twist_ to it.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but a laptop and certain plot elements

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"_Do not stand at my grave and weep.*_

_I am not there. I do not sleep."_

.

* * *

It was truly an odd event that plagued the ancient grounds of Berk, a predicament of sorts, an enigma rotting within the old soil. Pester an adult with these matters and one's words would be waved off (_distractedly, hurriedly, anxiously_), like swatting bothersome flies (_parasites, feasting on the death and decay of carnage wrought, not meant for proper conversation_)—no, it was wholly ignored by the elder populace, shoved far enough into the dark corners of their minds where not even maggots would reach.

_Talk to the children…and they'd sing a different song_.

The children were quite vehement in their belief. One slip, one mention, one breathed and broken prayer against the _curse_ that had befallen them, and they would cluster, commiserate, cower, and _cry_ like their minds had been reduced to broken little fragments, _praying, always praying,_ for the torment to end.

Except one boy.

It was most ironic, after all, that the village runt—the gangly one with freckles dotting every inch of his skin and green eyes of the forest every child was warned against passing during the dead of night, the child of auburn hair and crooked smiles with quivering lips that threatened to slip from his head altogether and splatter on the floor when confronted with the same questions and demands _every winter_—

It was that boy. Hamish, the little "Hiccup" of the village.

(The same Hiccup who everyone knew as the odd little boy, teased, tormented, and ostracized by the other children for _his __**connection**__ with the __**LOATHSOME, VILE, DISGUSTING **__**CREATURES**__ that they __**DAREN'T SPEAK OF**__—!_)

And the same Hiccup that grew to the odd little teen that interestingly (_unnervingly_) became the center of every peer's attention, a fickle sort of gravitation derived from _fear_ and _selfishness_. But what else could they do?

_He was the only one who wasn't afraid._

Years of malice had eventually given away to desperation and pleas for his kept secrets, the key to stop the terrors that settled onto their every waking moment, to rid of the misery and painful (_always, always painful_) delusions. The songs they sang crumbled from their caustic and hateful cries at his strange immunity to sickly-sweet praise and bitter begging.

This continued on to his teen years, now entering his sixteenth year and the sixteenth winter since it first began.

Since _THEY_ first arrived.

.

"Tonight…" Someone—Finnigan "Fishlegs"—finally said. "_It's_ coming tonight…" the boy choked, hands trembling and eyes wide with shock.

Hiccup kept quiet, eyes trained on the flickering flames lapping at the dry wood; the smoke billowed up into the dusky air. His grandfather could once prophesize one's fate (_or so he said_) by staring at the stars and smokes…before his sage old mind gave way to horrific hallucinations when he peered into his own grandson's fortune.

He wasn't quite sure why he suddenly remembered that.

The small eternity stretched on and for the umpteenth time that day, Hiccup looked up to find several pairs of eyes fixed on him.

"It will pass," he mumbled. It always did.

"For how long, Hiccup?" whispered Astrid, blonde locks falling over half her face; the other half revealed dull eyes of blue, a strange and foreboding hint of a demand written within the glow of the fire.

And just like always, Hiccup would cast his gaze to the dancing flames rather than the faces that bespoke of dread long endured. "Thirteen nights, you know that—"

"_HOW LONG DO WE HAVE TO LIVE LIKE THIS?!_" It was unexpected for some, but in the back of Hiccup's mind, he always knew that his cousin Sigurd "Snotlout" was far more volatile than the rest. "_HUH?! IF YOU'RE SUCH GREAT BUDDIES WITH THAT—THAT __**THING**__," _he spat, closing the distance between himself and the stoic teen, large fists grasping the slighter boy's shoulders with cringing force, and Hiccup knew that _this_ was how some people handled their fear, _this _was what those thirteen nights drove a large and confident boy like Sigurd to. _"WHEN HERE WE ARE, __**TRAPPED**__ AND __**HELPLESS**__ LIKE PREY, TRYING TO GET THROUGH __**EACH**__ NIGHT AND KNOWING IT GETS __**WORSE**__ AND __**WORSE**__, R-RE—!"_ When _this _was the aftermath of _years _of this torture had done—irrevocably broken a boy during the deadliest of nights. Hiccup could only look on, as something within the other boy splintered with a resounding shatter; the imagined sound echoed bleakly as his cousin uttered these words:_ "_Ready to _**kill**_ ourselves…_just to end it all…"_ Snotlout dropped his hands to the side, frozen for a moment longer, before turning away in frustration at the empty gaze his cousin sent back.

The chill of the night air rattled their bones, but that did little to explain the shivers down their spines as their shadows stretched and crawled against the ground.

"_Tonight_…" Fishlegs murmured weakly.

Still, Hiccup said nothing.

And Astrid was getting _sick _of it. "_Every year! Every year IT happens! _Every year, we cower in our beds, in our _homes_, where it's supposed to be safe, supposed to be our refuge, and _IT _comes—_!_"

"It's coming…tonight…" the blond boy repeated.

"_It _comes and _terrorizes _us!" Her eyes searched and sought for a _hint _of sympathy from the brunet, a _sign _of relent, a _word _to answer and solve all their problems. "We don't know what It _wants_, Hiccup!" she shrieked, half in grief, half in hatred. "…But you wouldn't know, wo_uld you?"_

And he needn't say a word; the rumors were long-since confirmed: the Hooded Figures that came in the winter nights didn't bother Hiccup at all.

"Hiccup… you don't know what it's like…to be plagued with nightmares for _thirteen_ straight nights…where you _die_ and _kill_ a _thousand_ times for endless hours…" For the slightest moment, Hiccup's hand trembled and his jaw clenched at her words. "And just when you thought you've _finally, finally _woken up…" No, he wouldn't look up—wouldn't look to see such a _strong, unyielding _person like Astrid on the brink of tears at her admittance: "_You're dragged down to hell __**all over again**__…_"

But his reaction was not overlooked by the others—no, it certainly was not. Truth had that strange effect on people, especially truths that were better left untold.

"Y-you don't know what it's like…" Snotlout started calmly, _mournfully_, "To wake up in the middle of the night, not knowing _where_ you are, who _you_ are—_not remembering a thing_—" He caught his breath, swallowing a scream only to shakily start again, "A-and to have your brain c-_crammed_ with _lies BECAUSE THOSE MEMORIES AREN'T __**MINE**__! I __**NEVER**__, __**NEVER**__ DID THAT, I __**NEVER **__**K**__—!" _

"We don't feel anything at all…" the twins, Rachel "Ruffnut" and Trevor "Tuffnut" interrupted, mischievous grins and devil-may-care personas muted with grave reality.

"_Well isn't that just __**great**__ for __**you**__!"_ Snotlout sneered, ready to retaliate as Tuffnut's eyes glowered, angry and frustrated words ready to be thrown like stones—

Until the other twin spoke first. "When I was eight…I grabbed the kitchen knife…" Ruffnut murmured, just loud enough for the others to hear; Hiccup grew nauseated at the crazed grimace stretching across her face. "Just to feel _something_, _anything_ at all…"

No one talked about that incident since it happened, when both twins were sent to the psychiatric ward—one deemed a threat to herself and the other for vehemently and violently refusing to leave his sister's side, repeatedly crying out of demonic "delusions" as the cause of his sister's "accident."

"_Tonight_…" Fishlegs parroted, entranced like a blasted bird mirroring its reflection before he too succumbed; the switch was as fascinating as it was grisly as his face contorted to panic, expression growing haunted. "No, no, not tonight…never, no, _**nononono**_—!" Hiccup gasped as the boy gripped his arm, sheer desperation written on his face. "I—I _can't __**take**__ it! _Hiccup, Hiccup please…" he blubbered, eyes alight with terror and tears, "I thought I was your _friend_, I n-never, _never_ teased you, never _hurt_ you, please_, please, please_—_!_"

"_Fishlegs!_" Astrid called, appalled at the scene as she tried to wrench the other boy off of the brunet.

"I _can't_—no, _no, no, nonono_…" he clung uselessly to the brunet's limp arm as the girl tore him away, leaving Hiccup shocked and speechless. "I can't go through that again…" the boy sobbed. "_Hopeless_…that's how it feels like half the time…the other times, I just feel… feels so _depressed_… I-I can't stop it—I can't _**eat**_, I can't _**sleep**_…not when _**It's**_ there…not when I know its watching me…_**laughing**_ at me underneath that hood." And it occurred to Hiccup then…that this was the first time he had ever seen any of them break down like that. "_Please_, Hiccup…"

It was chaos in his mind after that, whirling torrents of cries and sobs, of pleas and commands, of prayers and curses, and of grief-stricken faces and outraged masks that overlaid the _fear_.

"Hiccup, _c'mon_—"

"_Help us out!—"_

"You're the _only_ one who knows _how_—!"

"We _can't_…we can't take _any more of this_—"

"You _have _to—!"

"_I'm not scared of Them!_" It took a moment for Hiccup to register that the bellow came from him. He sucked in a breath, greedy lungs absorbing the smoke-tainted air. "_Okay_?" He looked about him, the group of teens aghast at his response. "That's it. _That's_ the big secret." Not knowing when he had sat up, the teen once again took his seat by the fire, readying himself for his 'explanation', keeping his gaze straight forward to the flickering fire. "I'm not scared. You know how I cope? I _talk_ to Them. They never talk back, but I'd just say '_hello,' 'goodnight,' _or, '_It's been a year already?'_" He looked around, searched the others' faces and was correct in guessing that they would look to him like he was indeed insane, ready to be tied to a mast and shipped off to unforgiving waters for fear he had truly gone mad. "Yes, as crazy as it is…that's all I do," Hiccup reaffirmed. "I'm not scared of Them, not even when I was little…er." He gave an ironic little chuckle, not bothering to look at their doubting faces from his incredulous reveal. "For God's sake, I even challenged Them to a staring contest once! I won too and laughed when They blinked." He tried to give a small smile at that, but it promptly died at the sight that greeted him.

"_What?"_

"That's _it_?"

"_That's all?!"_

"There _has _to be _more!"_

"You mean to tell me that you're actually _friends_ with IT?!"

Hiccup sighed. "Not exactly." A hollowness welled up within him. "I just don't meet _Them_ with the same hostility you guys do."

And the silence stretched on again; for the other teens, they always knew that Hiccup was an odd one, a bizarre little boy with his head in the clouds, tripping over the sticks and stones he never saw below. But _this?_ _This_ was his guarded secret?

Hiccup's shoulders fell to a slump at the disillusioned looks masking the fear and terror in the air; no matter what he said, no matter how he gave his word to them, Hiccup knew they would be unable to heed his advice. It was hopeless from the beginning and he knew that.

"I need to get home," he murmured, uprooting himself from his spot by the pit. "My Dad'll want dinner by the time he gets back." Without another word, he slipped behind the trees, the slivers of firelight fading away into the darkness of dusk as he disappeared from sight.

No one stopped him.

The silence stretched on, made uneasy by the crackling and spitting of the fire, small embers beginning to give way into the night; there was nothing to be scared of in these woods, despite what they were told when they were children…it was only when the first waves of drowsiness would strike would the forest mutate to something sinister. But none of that could compare to the horrors that awaited them in their own homes.

But surprisingly, something _else _suddenly crossed everyone's minds, filling their thoughts with a weak anxiety, a dim shiver of fear_:_

_How did he know It blinked_?

.

That night, when dinner had been eaten and the plates packed away, when he bid his father a good night and did the same for Toothless, the young hound they kept downstairs, Hiccup took patient but cautious steps to his own room. From the corridor, he heard Toothless give a pitiable whine—long since trained by the boy to restrain his vicious barks during this time of year.

They'd come. No matter what. Every year, without fail. This year would be no different.

At least, that was the learned mantra he kept in his head as he entered his darkened room. For a second, his fingers hovered over the light switch…but fell to his side as he made his way to his bed in near-darkness. From his nightstand, his hands searched for the lamp he kept beside him, fingers trailing and searching across the smooth wood.

He listened softly in the darkness, his own heart beat pulsing calmly as he found the switch, turned the small knob, and a faint, fiery glow illuminated the blackened room.

He then looked to the doorway and found that his door had already closed.

A freezing chill swept through the air and Hiccup knew They were being playful again. He smiled to himself and settled beneath the covers. "Back again, hm?" he called quietly.

Only silence greeted him, a soft storm billowing strands of his hair; it took years of practice not to shiver.

"I appreciate the help," he murmured, gaze settled on the wood of the door. Perhaps if he had been a little more awake or a little more attentive, he would have noticed a shadow hanging overhead.

(And if he had looked just a bit harder, he would have seen that the door was not only _closed…_but it was _locked_ as well.)

It was an old ritual of sorts; Hiccup would look around the room, the glowing filament from the old lamp serving as his guide. His eyes would trail from the left to his windows—latch covered in dust from disuse and glass frosted over with silvery trails of ice—, to the right where the entrance and, adjacent, where closet stood—one door shut tight, the other slightly ajar revealing a grinning darkness that the light could never quite touch—, but he would _never_ look up.

_He knows They __**hate**__ being seen.*_

There was movement from the corner of his eyes and while he would have to entertain his annual guest some time or another, his heart began to beat just a tiny bit faster, distracting his ears from the sounds he had been trying to catch. It was never a good sign when that happened. So he took his chances, arms stretched to the side to grasp the tiny mechanism, fingers momentarily warmed from the bitter cold as his skin brushed against the bulb. He was worn from the day and he hoped that They'd understand.

Darkness enveloped the room, a deceptive tranquility blanketing over the teen's mind like scorching ash masquerading as snow. Before death's brother carried him off, he bade the Hooded Figure a soft, "_Good night_," and subsequently missed the slight sound his ears had been trying to catch:

A shuddering breath, stuttered out in amusement— a secretive sort of _laugh_ that echoed in the dark.

.

When daylight streamed from his window, Hiccup willed his body to relax before slowly rousing from slumber.

He wouldn't find Them in the day, not when they much preferred the night to hide amongst, not when slumber left children vulnerable and weak. Sunlight meant blithe beginnings while moonbeams casted shadows for death to creep along. But that was okay. The first night had come and went, just as in the years before, just as in the years to come.

"_And it'd all go away some day…like waking up from a dream and never knowing what was real or not."_

His mother said that to him once and like everything else of hers, he kept it close to his heart and always in remembrance. He took a glance to his right—

(What he _didn't_ remember was _that_ resting on his nightstand.)

With hesitant fingers, Hiccup plucked the item from its place, nearly dropping the delicate object in shock.

_It was freezing to the touch_.

He recognized it as a ring torque, delicately and artfully crafted in what appeared to be glass, small frost ferns snaking and twisting about the thin, solid material. It glimmered in the light, revealing white fractures trailing across the surface. Something whole, fragile, and shattering all at once.

"_Don't be afraid."_

Yes…she had said that too, long ago, when he was little, before those words were carved down to the very marrow of his bones. Yet, it was a funny sort of thing…whenever he thought about it, something in his chest thudded _just_ _a_ _bit_ harder. Hiccup swallowed and stood from his bed. Green eyes forced their gaze away from the gleaming glass, daring himself to bring his eyes heavenward. And when he did, he forced his heart to slow its cadence.

Nothing.

With a sigh, he busied himself for the day, keeping the trinket with him in his pocket, but never allowing the cold surface to graze his skin.

(It was _acceptance_—not _reciprocation_.)

He exited the room, slipping on the clothes he had worn the previous day and not casting another glance at the closed closet door; his mind was (_thankfully_) elsewhere and nowhere all at once as his fingers slipped from the knob and the wood behind him clicked into place.

.

Snotlout was the first to discover it. And the first to explode when Hiccup wouldn't let him take it. "Are you _**insane**_?!" his cousin breathed, haggard and unhinged. "Are you _trying_ to _protect It_?!"

Hiccup sighed. "I'm not."

"_Hiccup_…" Fishlegs staggered towards him like a parched man in need of water. "This could be our chance…don't you see?! They _never_ leave anything behind—_NEVER." _

"And here comes _your_ Figure and its just _drops_ in with a present?!" demanded Snotlout."While we…we have to _suffer_ through this for another _twelve_ _days_?!"

Astrid brushed past him and Hiccup could tell by the dark rings around her eyes that she took no heed to his words at all. "Hiccup…this could end _all _of this. If we show this to the adults, they can't say this is all just a bad dream, not anymore when we have _physical evidence_…" Her mouth quivered as the first trickles of excitement poured from her, of some saving grace that she could hold and _hope _for. "If we get this to Gothi, she can help— Hiccup, we finally have _proof _that they're _real—!_"

(_But they don't __**know**__—no, they __**can't**__ know—__**nothing**__ can stop Them, __**nothing at all**__, nothing but passing seasons and hours and there are just some monsters in the dark that not even mommies and daddies can **protect** you from_—)

"—I _**CAN'T**_," he bit out, eyes flaring in anger and infuriation (_misery_ and _despondency_).

The girl recoiled, as if struck. "Wh-what are you saying…" And Hiccup could see it in her face right now—the _fear_, the _horror_, the _realization_ that there was nothing he'd do to stop it_…nothing at all._

"I'm saying…" he sucked in a breath, feeling the cold, midday air filling his lungs, a sharp and bitter stabbing in his chest. The brunet shook his head and turned to them once more, numbly repeating the same words that had been reverberating in his mind the whole day. "_I'm saying that it's rude to throw away a gift." _

"You…you've sided with _It_…" Fishlegs uttered, face contorted with disbelief.

"No, _I'm_—!" But Hiccup couldn't say it—_could never say it_—because as long as he _obeyed_… "I'm leaving." _Nothing_ _would_ _hurt_ _him_.

When he did so, nobody stopped him.

Some time later, as the group huddled together for warmth, an apathetic Tuffnut mumbled against the chilling winds, "He's acting…_stranger_ today, isn't he…"

Nobody could respond.

.

The nights came and went in quiet and anxious cycle—_no it was not __**fear**_, _he told himself __**repeatedly**__, __**vehemently**__—_but for this was a different sort of feeling. It was suffocating silence, a deaf ringing in the dead of dusk, not a single phrase breathed between, not a gasp heard from the other, not even a shadow passing overhead or anymore staring contests with those piercing eyes, glowing from behind the shady visage of Their cowl when he'd finally catch Them, hanging from the rafters or casting images from the window. For the first time since he was young…They wouldn't come near him at all.

It was a new game, Hiccup reasoned, because every morning, a sheer trail of ice and rime covered the floor around his room, growing _closer_ and _closer_ to his bed every night. It _must_ be a new game…or They could be growing _upset_—

Because throughout those past twelve nights, not _once _had Hiccup worn the torque.

But it'd be all over soon anyways.

The moon grew full, the skies smeared in inky blackness, and the winds howled that thirteenth night. During dinner, he wasn't exactly sure why or what made him do such a thing, but he embraced his father before the bewildered man heartily returned his hold and retreated to the master bedroom. Something coiled in his gut at the astonished look in his father's eyes…especially at that small trickle of worry. He did the same with Toothless, getting down on his knees and holding the hound close. Toothless let out a whine and pawed at the leash restraining him.

Hiccup gave the hound an affectionate pat and murmured a "_Good_ _night_," before walking down the darkened corridors.

Despite Toothless's hard training, his fierce loyalty towards the boy resounded through the house as the dog gave a mournful, heartbreaking howl.

.

Hiccup had taken to changing in the bathroom; a week prior to the annual visits, he would pack his clothes in a clean hamper but made sure to ration his attires carefully; They didn't like to be _disturbed_ any more than They liked to be _seen_. Hiccup tugged his jacket off, frowning when he had to carefully fish the torque from his pocket.

It was still eerily cold, but had warmed significantly since the second day. He eyed the trinket, musing if it really _was _a gift…

(_Or a __**trap**__?)_

He shook the thoughts from his head and continued to dress. It was the last night and after all this, it'd be over for another three hundred and fifty-two days. Tugging his shirt over his head, he took a casual glance at the mirror—

—_and bit his tongue to keep from crying out_.

The coppery taste filled his mouth and Hiccup gave a hard swallow, a nauseas sensation flooding his system when he dared to look again:

There was nothing there but his own reflection.

And it _had_ to be his mind, _yes his mind_, because _They_ never left his room, _They _never followed him outside, _They _only did that when you _foolishly tried to run, tried to escape, tried to __**anger **__them, _and _that_ couldn't be the case because _Hiccup—__**Hiccup **_always, _always_ followed the rules, _always _played by this game, _never got __**hurt**__ again_ and this was _her_ promise to him, _her words that he followed and lived by, _and—

He remembered her words then, remembered the words of his mother, who warned never, _ever,_ to _**displease**_ them. Hiccup gazed at the torque and experimentally bent the material; it gave way to his touch easily. Heartbeat accelerating, pulse thrumming against his veins, Hiccup ignoring the sickening feeling in his stomach as he slipped it around his throat and curved it closed. Hiccup wasn't surprised to see that it was a perfect fit.

He'd wear it to bed. If this would satisfy Them, then he'd have a whole year to decide what to do with this trinket…

But he wouldn't think about that now. Not when he had a _guest_ to entertain and his mother did say to _never _keep them _waiting_, _never _to _upset_ them.

_(It was __**such**__ a shame that he forgot that his mother also said to __**never**__ show them __**gratitude**__ either.)_

_._

It was quiet in the room when he went to bed, and _cool_— not _cold_. He didn't really notice however, as the torque was cold as ice and nipped the skin around his neck. It began to suffocate him just a bit but he restrained himself in showing any sort of discomfort. No, that'd be _rude_. It would be enough, though, to have the torque peeking from his shirt collar, curled around his flesh in possession.

So Hiccup flicked off the lights and tried not to stare too much at his clock, radiating in neon green, reading 10:21 PM with unspoken reassurance. Less than two hours to go. Curling into the blankets as the cool glass chilled his skin, he breathed a, "Good night," as his eyes slipped shut.

But before Hiccup went to sleep, he swore he heard another voice call softly to him, as brittle as words carried by wintry gales, "_Good_ _night_..."

.

He feigned sleep for several hours. When he'd begin to drift off, _something_ kept startling him awake—an overwhelming _emptiness_ and _loneliness_ that pulled him from innocent dreams before they transfigured into twisted _nightmares_, the biting cold piercing through the covers, gnawing at his skin, settling into his very heart.

He glanced at the clock, exhaustion coating his mind and silently egged the little digits to grant him reprieve. When the clock finally, _finally _read midnight, he breathed a sigh of relief and his eyes fluttered closed— the thirteenth night was _over_…

—and yet, it was still so, so, _so_ cold…

He felt it then, a wintry air, permeating the room, freezing his skin, the little torque around his neck—_tightening_, _grasping, and biting_ his throat—and for the very first time, he nearly forgot everything his mother told him before she passed away: _never_, _**ever**_ show _**fear**_. Her words murmured and whispered, cried and shrieked in his head, her voice growing pained and distorted and Hiccup knew, _Hiccup knew_ the game had changed, _knew_ they weren't playing the same rules anymore.

But he willed his heart to stop giving away those tell-tale signs, stop struggling, stop to figure things out, to _**FUCKING**_ _**STOP**_ _**PANICKING**_ even as his bed dipped from the force of another's weight, even when the torque began to choke him just a little bit more as he tried to even out his breathing because _no, no, no she __**promised**__, she gave her word that They'd never harm him,__** They'd **__NEVER LAY A **SINGLE**_—

— But she was wrong…for the first time in one horrifying moment, **IT** _touched_ him...gently, ever so, trailing a skeleton-thin finger, from his cheek to his jaw, tenderly, lovingly, cruel ice-blues glimmering with mute malice from behind the shadows of its veil at the sight of Hiccup's owlish eyes, devoid of any sort of emotion...but **IT** could taste it in the air...the smallest inklings...of _**fear**_.

And Hiccup knew, knew **IT** was growing _angry_; the air began to chill him to the very core, the winds outside were howling, and Hiccup felt so dizzy as oxygen became scarce, as **IT** crept closer and closer to him, trapping him where he laid, even as the clock ticked _closer_ and _closer_ to the thirteenth hour, and he tried so _desperately_ hard to stop its anger from surfacing, mind frantically scouring for what to do, _any idea what to do because this was __**wrong, WRONG, SO VERY WRONG**__, it wasn't supposed to do this, it wasn't supposed to happen, They __**NEVER **__STAYED LONGER THAN THE THIRTEEN NIGHTS, __**NEVER **__SUPPOSED TO __**TOUCH **__HIM—_

But that sort of thinking would get him killed (_faster_).

Instead, he wrenched his thoughts away from the panic and disorder; it was _angry_, he knew…and what was a child to do other than to seek _ITs_ _**forgiveness**_? He leaned into ITs touch, eyes falling shut, and _calmed_ himself, calmed himself even as sharp nails carelessly raked gashes across his cheek, tiny beads of blood forming burgundy dots against his freckles, because at least now, at least now the winds stopped roaring and the moonlight stopped dancing to reveal shadowed demons in his room...

_At least now, __**IT**__ wasn't displeased._

And it'd be okay, he told himself, it'd be okay as long as he followed every rule his mother told him, ever since that first night he met cruel eyes of blue, even as the words collected dust in his mind and some of the phrases were smeared with childish fears, traumas, and woes and became illegible with time...

(—_like the little tidbit that his mother told him, just before he closed his eyes to sleep and just before he awoke to find her heart had stopped beating some minutes later—_

_**"Never give them a reason to stay."**__)_

And so Hiccup swallowed his fear, pushing it towards that place of nightmares that he was only ever allowed to visit after the Figures were gone for another year, and dared to cling to _**IT**_, mouth shut and thought of his mother...his dear mother whose advice never failed him, who he felt protected him through these nights when memorized prayers abandoned his mind, when mindless mantras and self-utterances would not suffice, who could be watching over him, right now, curled up against the very _thing _she had warned him of, the very _thing_ she was devastated to learn that had entered her own _HOME _and took _INTEREST _in _HER_ _boy—_

_But none of it was working anymore._

Hiccup didn't know when the Figure started rocking him back and forth, soothing and tenderly like one with a small child; the neckpiece no longer bothered him and he barely flinched as spidery fingers turned the torque around his neck, reversing the roles of the front and back, nails like five little blades digging and trailing scratches against his skin. And all at once, the figure stopped moving. Wiry arms still held the boy close but a dubious serenity had settled onto the creature, a strange sort of contentment that wrought complete quiet, leaving Hiccup's mouth dry and stomach in knots as dread once more started to mount.

Because if there was anything he _knew _from _experience_ with IT…it was that _utter_ _silence_ was _**never**__ a good thing. _And it truly _was _insane—_something_ like a seed of madness planted in his mind after _years, desperate years of __**forcing his fear down like a bitter drug**__, trapping his emotions and thoughts and __**carefully**__ locking them away so __**IT'd **__never __**find **__out_—but her _rules, __**her rules **__WEREN'T WORKING BECAUSE IT WAS __**STILL**__ HERE, IT __**WOULDN'T **__**LEAVE**__, THIS WASN'T WHAT WAS __**SUPPOSED**__ TO __**HAPPEN**__—_and this _game _didn't have the same _rules _anymore; _**IT**_ wasn't singing the same song anymore.

'_Nothing makes sense…nothing at all,'_ something cooed in his mind…

And that _something in his mind_ caused him to commit the worst, possible thing he could have done at that moment:

_He looked up._

The sight that he met _would_ have plagued his nightmares for years to come.

_ITs_ hood was lowered and luminous moonbeams revealed a _boy_, hauntingly beautiful with pale, corpse-like skin, and youthful face…and _ITs_ _**smile**_..._ITs_ _hideous_ smile with too sharp, too many teeth, glimmering and white, stretching too far, too wide that _ITs_ _skin_ began to crack around the edges...and _ITs_ _**eyes**_...ice-blue like distorted mirrors shining with what could have been _**love**_ and _**affection**_ now _tainted_ and _twisted_ to shine back with _manic_ _**obsession—**__the same eyes that had __**WATCHED HIM AS A CHILD, WATCHED HIM WITH THAT** **SAME, RAVENOUS GAZE FOR ALL THESE YEARS—**_

That sight _WOULD_ have plagued Hiccup with terrors forevermore, mind irreversibly broken, even now as he gasped and cried, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, a hoarse desperation bleeding into his words as he chanted his forgotten prayer, "_No, no, no, no_…" eyes never leaving the haunting image of this _**SICK, SICK MONSTER BEFORE HIM**_—

Except Hiccup did the absolute worst thing he could have _ever_ done:

_He screamed._

A hungry mouth covered his, teeth ripping through tender flesh, choking the swan song with blood and ice, gripping his vulnerable throat before the last little note sank into the heavy air, drowning the boy with a travesty of a kiss as darkness swallowed him completely…

.

The whole village scoured every inch of Berk for any sign of him.

Search parties left at the brink of dawn and hiked the mountains, roamed the plains, and plundered the forests for any sign of the lost boy until the hours bled into the night.

This continued on for months.

But even as the seasons changed, the poor father—lost his _dear_ wife and now his _beloved_ son—continued to pray, continued to hope, that some day, some way, his boy would come back to him…

Whether in the form of the gangly and eccentric teen he both loved and could never quite understand…or in the form of bones he could lie to rest in a grave beside his wife's. He _always_ _prayed_ his boy would come back to him.

But that day, he _prayed _for another reason.

Because that day, after months of refusing to enter, refusing to move an object out of place, refusing to _touch_ a single thing until his boy was found…Sten Haddock entered the lonely little room, still cluttered with his son's drawings and books, disheveled as the day he first came inside and frantically searched every nook and cranny of the house for his son when the boy didn't come down for breakfast that morning.

He knew he wouldn't find anything there; there was no sign of a break-in anywhere in the home. But he braved his steps towards the silent quarters, heart dropping to the pit of his stomach in both dread and desperation.

He looked everywhere—except one place:

_Under the bed._

And what else was he to do but search where none have yet, despite the impossibility? His boy was thin, but he wasn't small anymore. There was no way he could have fit between the base of the frame and the hardwood floor, no way he'd find his boy in there, miraculously unharmed and just a little bit cramped, no way he'd be able to solve his boy's disappearance and his own heartbreak by hefting the heavy bed frame out of the way and to the side to find some sort of clue as to where his boy might be…

_And he was right_.

The sight uncovered by the man left him unable to utter a word, unable to wrench his eyes away, unable to do anything but to allow his knees to give way and to crumple onto the floor, face etched with unspeakable horror.

On the wood beneath the bed were the remnants of a gaping void, crusted with drips and drops of blackened and coppery fluids that congealed through the months, encircling the splintering cracks of the fissure engraved onto the floorboards. There were scratch marks littering the floor and any seasoned hunter would know that they were made by two separate entities: one small and fraught, blunt nails and delicate fingertips bloodied through the grapple…and the other of a _predator_—sharp and unforgiving claws dragging its prey down to its lair, evident from the large gashes across the wood, nearly overlapping the smaller marks…

But that wasn't what made the grown man nearly break down and cry.

It was these words, carved onto boards like manic smiles on monstrous faces, mere inches away from the ruin of the sealed abyss; a warning, a decree, forever ingrained upon the home and in the father's mind, dirtied by blood and tainted with a sinister impression that not even the flies would feast upon:

_**HE'S MINE.**_

* * *

.

"_Do not stand at my grave and cry._

_I am not there. I did not die."_

_._

* * *

Huh. Well that didn't go quite as planned and I apologize for the format but uhm...emphasis, haha... Either way, I hope you enjoyed it.

**Important Note**: Torques, or torcs, are made with metal and possibly represented power and nobility in Viking culture, as it was with the Celts they battled; **Hiccup was mistaken**. What Jack gave him was not a torque but a _**collar**_, signifying **ownership**. (That's why he turned it around.)

*=The poem in the beginning and end are the opening and ending lines of **Mary Elizabeth Frye**'s lovely poem "_Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep_," which I totally took out of context. Really, it's very sweet actually.

***=** from two-sentence horror stories on reddit: "Don't be scared of the monsters, just look for them. Look to your left, to your right, under your bed, behind your dresser, in your closet but never look up, she hates being seen."

**Child and Hooded Figure:**

Astrid – Sandman (Fear, Nightmares, and Lasting Slumber)

Snotlout – Tooth Fairy (Fear, Memories, and Falsehood)

Ruffnut and Tuffnut – Santa Clause (Fear, Apathy/Horror – what I deem antonyms of _Wonder_)

Fishlegs – Easter Bunny (Fear, Hopelessness, and Depression)

Hiccup – Jack Frost (Fear, Loneliness, and [subjected to] Possessiveness)

(What did I just do?)


	2. Lacrimosa Lullaby

A side story to **Hora Somni** so haha…it might be best if you read that one before reading this one ^^; This sort of explains some things about the Hooded Figures.

**Aangelik** asked for an explanation in Hora Somni about Hiccup's mother and I decided to explore that a bit more.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but a laptop and certain plot elements.

* * *

_._

_On earth this desire is often called "love." In Hell I feign that they recognize it as hunger. _

_– C.S. Lewis_

_._

"Hush, my sweet…"

"Baby, close your eyes…"

"Darling, go to sleep"

"Don't listen to Their lies…"

"_To my son…"_

"Please, don't shiver…"

"Please, don't be afraid…"

"They can hear your heart quiver…"

"Even as you prayed."

"_Do not listen"_

"Remember—always remember:"

"—Even when I am not here—"

"That every December…"

"You must not show fear."

"_To this tired old song…"_

"Oh, my poor, precious baby…"

"You must laugh, you must play!"

"But do not make them angry…"

"And choose wisely of what you say…"

"_And believe it will keep you safe."_

"Cover your ears; death embraces belief"

"As wicked words can lead you astray;"

"Do not show thanks; do not show grief;"

"And never give them a reason to stay."

"_It will not. It cannot."_

"Oh my dear, darling boy…"

"Your eyes grow heavy by my song…"

"Sleep now and dream of innocent joy…"

"They are coming soon; They won't be long…"

.

"_Oh, my darling son…"_

.

"I'm sorry…I can't make Them stop…"

"I'm sorry…I can't make things right."

"I can still remember how my heart dropped…"

"When your father opened our door that one winter's night…"*

"_Had I only known!"_

"A simple act that lead to so much more—"

"He doesn't remember—he doesn't know…"

"That when he opened the door…"

"He let Something in apart from wind and snow…"

"_Of these cruel games They play!"_

"A heartless soul and eyes of glass—"

"Eyes that found your darling face…"

"And sought to steal you from my grasp"

"And to Their devil's embrace."

"_I'm sorry—"_

"Hush now darling…it will be okay…"

"They cannot hurt me and you will be safe."

"I'll be here with you come the next day."

"And sing again after you wake…"

"_I was wrong—!"_

_._

_The road to hell is paved with good intentions._

_- Proverb_

_._

* * *

*= old legend that some creatures cannot enter a threshold without being "invited" in. On a cold winter night, Sten Haddock awoke to vigorous knocking on his front door. When he opened to check the source of the sound, he found nothing but howling winds and snow. _**Or so he thought**. _

Confusing? Sorry haha…


End file.
